Read Online Hell's Bay by James W. Hall - Free Book Online Page B

hair and tissue samples. Is that what you do?”
    â€œNot really,” Sugar said. “I’m old-school. Don’t even own a pair of tweezers. Wouldn’t know what to do with them if I did.”
    â€œBut how do you solve your cases?”
    â€œTalk to people, ask a lot of questions. It’s not real glamorous.”
    As Annette was about to press on, mercifully, the dessert tray arrived.
    I thought I’d escaped her third degree, but later as Holland was ordering a cognac, Annette said, “So Mr. Thorn, I hear you’re our resident curmudgeon.”
    â€œDefine please,” Holland said.
    â€œKilljoy, wet blanket,” Annette said. Sounded like a routine they played.
    I drew a breath, worked my lips into something of a smile.
    â€œI’m a recovering curmudgeon. Been sociable for the last three days.”
    â€œIt’s the next seven I’m concerned about,” Annette said.
    While the others chuckled, John Milligan ticked his eyes around the table, landing on each face for a second, then moving on as if he was fine-tuning his assessments of his ship-mates.
    â€œAnd you, Mona?” I said. “What’s your story?”
    It took a moment for her to surface from the shadowy place in her head.
    She gave me a cold glare, then picked up her spoon, stared down at her untouched crème brûlée, and with a series of petulant jabs, broke the hard crust in several places.
    â€œMy daughter’s suffered a painful loss. Actually we both have.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that,” Annette said. “But this trip should help. All the clean air and sunshine. I always feel refreshed after a stint in the wild.”
    â€œThat’s what I was hoping for,” Milligan said. “A little renewal.”
    â€œKumbaya, my Lord.” Holland raised his Nikon and snapped three quick shots of my profile.
    â€œYou think you could give that a rest, Holland?” I said.
    Holland seemed about to make a witty comeback, but Annette sent him a pinched look and he closed his mouth, then made a production of snapping the lens cap back in place and slumping in his seat.
    When his performance was done, I turned back to Milligan.
    â€œWhat kind of loss?”
    I knew it was rude to press on, but at that moment I needed to know just what the hell I was getting into. I was about two seconds from wadding my napkin, tossing it on the table, and stalking off. Virgin lakes be damned. Rusty would just have to snag one of her guide buddies as a last-second replacement.
    â€œMy mother died,” Milligan said. “Mona’s grandmother. A few months ago, she drowned in the Peace River. That would be your grandmother, too, Thorn. Abigail Bates.”
    Annette set her spoon down. The table fell silent. This was a good deal more confession than anyone had bargained for. I felt Rusty’s leg pressing against mine, hard as concrete. Holland slurped his cognac, and Sugar absently fondled the stem of his glass. The awkward hush was becoming more awkward by the moment.
    To my right, Mona spooned up bite after bite of crème brûlée, then while we watched, scraped out the remains. When she was done, she patted her lips with her napkin, folded it neatly, and set it beside her place mat.
    â€œGrandmother was murdered,” she announced.
    She stared at me for several seconds, then looked past me at her father.
    â€œNo, she wasn’t,” Milligan said with a weary frown. “Her canoe tipped over and she drowned.”
    He glanced around the table, and for the first time since I’d met him, he seemed less than certain.
    â€œThere was a thorough investigation,” he said, looking at each of us in turn. “State, local. All the forensics were done, one of the best pathologists in Florida. There was no evidence of foul play, none whatsoever. She drowned. She was eighty-six and had no business in a canoe by herself without so much as a life jacket or